Friday, August 29, 2014

Some people love the bed and breakfast experience. I’m not one of them. It’s the breakfast part I hate, sitting at the dining room table, forcing interest in your fellow boarders. Just give me a cup of coffee and a piece of bacon. That’s all I’m asking.

But last fall, we found ourselves in just such a situation in Willamette Valley. Oregon’s wine growing region has beautiful views, interesting wines, amazing restaurants and a handful of housing options. So it’s no surprise to find a self-proclaimed foodie or wine snob sitting across the B&B table, as hung-over as a college student.

They are generally gregarious, anxious to impart their wisdom about a super-secret restaurant that they’ve stumbled on, to add to their street cred, drive traffic to their blog. And after the soliloquy on last night’s food rapture, they ask the question: Where are you from.

“Iowa. On the Mississippi River.”

And a look of horror passes over their face. It takes a moment for them to form the words.

“What do you EAT there?” As though Iowa were a vast food desert. Nothing but flat acres of corn fed to cows somewhere else.

It’s a question I struggle with sometimes and I have learned that most often the question means “Where do you eat there?” The food tourist isn’t as interested in the meal as they are in the stamp in their mental passport so of course they’ve never considered Iowa.

We have our restaurants and they serve us admirably. But there aren’t many where I can say “This is what we eat and you can get it nowhere else, nowhere better.”

But I didn’t run down that list when confronted with the “What do you eat” question.

“We cook at home. We have friends over. We raid our friends’ gardens.”

Because a meal isn’t just about the food. It’s about the people you share it with. The connections you make and keep and cherish long after your favorite restaurant goes the way of arugula pizza.

Sweet Potato Breakfast Hash For People Who Hate Breakfast Food

Diced up an onion and toss it into a skillet where you’ve already melted some butter. Peel a sweet potato and chop it into little 1/4” squares. Or grate it. I don’t like it grated as much, but you might. Toss that in with the onions and fry it on medium heat. Too hot and the outsides brown but the insides don’t cook. You’re looking for that nice brown caramelized outside. When it’s almost done, toss in some left-over chicken cut into little bits. (What, no leftover chicken? I thought everyone had leftover chicken.) Season with salt and pepper.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

The last Hooligans Picnic
was probably 40 years ago. The guys that hung out at my grandparent's Southside
tavern — that's the south side of Chicago, Roseland to be exact — would reserve
some tables in a forest preserve, rent a few kiddie carnival rides to keep us
occupied and throw some charcoal in a 55-gallon drum that had been sliced in
half and sandblasted at the corner auto body repair shop. It was Labor Day and
the neighborhood celebrated it vehemently. St. Patrick's Day was for rookies.

A few kegs of PBR or Schlitz were
rolled in, the neighborhood beer, back before they were ironic or cool. The ladies
circled their aluminum chairs near the kegs because that was the best shade.
They refused the beer and drank highballs out of plastic cups.

I remember the drinks.
Remember sneaking a sip when no one was looking. And I remember making 7 and 7s
for the aunties (Seagrams 7 and 7-Up, but not too much 7-Up. They were very
specific in their instructions.)

But I don't remember the
food. Hot dogs, I'd guess. It was Chicago, after all.

The Hooligans broke up,
moved away, drank themselves to death. It's what you'd expect from a group
created on a bar stool. I moved too. To Carbondale — Southern Illinois
University — where the Labor Day picnics were on rotting old porches and the
beer wasn't much better. But the entire bottle was now mine. I didn't have to
sneak sips.

A grill was always going.
There were hot dogs. And hamburgers. Standard grill fare, far better than
standard cafeteria fare. Some ambitious girl would show up with a salad of
shredded iceberg lettuce and grated carrots, not realizing there was nothing to
eat it with. We were moving up in the world.

Years later, the calendar
pages flying past as if blown by a tornado, I flip through a pile of cookbooks,
looking for a great Labor Day meal. I already chosen the beer. A home brew
quietly aging in the basement. But the meal? It has to have zucchini in it. And
tomatoes. Because that's what I picked up at the farmers market. I've found
several complicated recipes, a dozen ingredients that look beautiful in the
after pictures. But so much work.

Last week, a friend, Nathalie
Girod, posted a picture of her lunch on Facebook. Just slices of the freshest
vegetables, lightly grilled. I didn't ask her for the recipe, because she won't
have one. She never does. Great cooks don't work that way. So I made one up.

Grilled Zucchini

Cut zucchini lengthwise into 1/4 inch
slices.. Brush with olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and pepper and put it
directly on a medium hot grill until the grill makes marks on it. That'll be
about 6 minutes. Flip it over and repeat on the other side. I'll sprinkle some
parmesan on top sometime. Maybe.